


15% Restocking Fee

by ignited



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-01-08
Updated: 2008-01-08
Packaged: 2017-11-03 18:51:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/384687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignited/pseuds/ignited
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Boys on film (in Best Buy.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	15% Restocking Fee

Fuck. _Fuck_. It’s not the kind of mantra that repeats in his head, but now it’s the angle that’s hard to come off smooth, keeps jerking his hips too fast, _fuck_ bit out, mouth taut after. Under his breath, and speaking of under, Sam is under him too, strong lines of his back curving down as he holds onto the counter for purchase.

 

 

-

_Fuck_ , fucking hell too, fucking stupid for them to be here, _necessary_ , investigating, right, sometimes he’s caught up in the moment, little slip of insanity that settles in, deep, like the blood when it rushes out of his head and straight to his dick. Because _where_ they are, now, that’s the problem. It’s _Best Buy_. It’s the second floor, big city big box store, and it’s three forty six in the morning, slipping in undetected, and they’re fucking in a place Dean wouldn’t shop if you paid him; not like he doesn’t think they’re all right, but he’s better off in Wal-Mart, get your latest flicks for five bucks in the bargain bin.

They got a case though, even an _invitation_ , guy in his early twenties, college age, works at the place where the “ghosts are coming from”—been a rash of hauntings, all originating from the televisions, computers, and electronics sold from this particular store. Sam thinks it’s the spirit of a disgruntled employee; Dean brings up _The Ring_ , and they spend a good five minutes arguing about American versus Japanese cinema.

Which, not the point.

Point is, the guy wants a stop to the hauntings, so do they their thing, little B&E, and they’re at his store—not like he’s aware of it, and no one _will_ be, thanks to Sam fixing the alarms, all hands as Dean hovers by, shutting off the security cameras.

All _hands_ , clamping down on the counter, stuttered breath as Dean shoves him against them, breathes down his neck. “What—the _fuck_ , Dean,” Sam snaps, voice unclear, rough, clears his throat as he _frowns_ ; only Sam can bring up the bitchy when he’s under, _now_ —

“We got time,” is what Dean says, adds, clipped, “don’t think he’s buried in aisle five, if you get my drift.”

He grins, gets a glance in the dark of the expanse of Sam’s neck and jaw, the way his hair feathers out, ends twirled up, ready to be messed up. “Always wanted to see if my ass looks good on plasma or LCD.”

And _this_ is not what they're supposed to be doing—this is a case, this is serious, this is a wild goose chase, 'cause Dean'll bet his money that the guy's buried in the cemetery not too far from here, and they'll take care of it. Finds himself getting cocky, bad trait, he knows, but his year's winding down and sometimes the _take_ is better than the _have_.

He's pushing and pulling, Sam's jeans going down and his own, too, and Sam fumbles for the bottle of lube in his jacket pocket. Needs to carry it around, sometimes there’s just no time but _now_ , the way Dean'll suggest, raises his eyebrows and says it, blunt, _let's fuck_. And Sam's going, _you're a regular Casanova_ , better than Sammy calling him _romantic_ ; the word almost gives him friggin’ hives, and they fuck, quick, hard, good, in every which way and whatever place they come across.

Lots of places, just not in high definition.

"Bet you always wanted to do something like this," Dean says, rough thrust punctuates every few syllables, reaches one hand over and wipes the hair away from Sam’s temple, lets his face rub and stubble scrape against his jaw. Whispers, “Get taped. You like it, don’t you? Kinky fucker, man, I _know_ you, you’d _like_ it. Love it. Take a look at yourself, Sammy.”

Sam rolls his shoulder muscles, jacket getting scrunched up, grunt and groan with the motion, huff of air as he bites out, “Shut up. _More_.”

“You’re so fuckin’ tight, man, _tense_ ,” Dean says, and he kisses the juncture of jaw and neck, hands that slide along Sam’s jacket, sides, shift and angle his hips as he shoves down Sam’s jeans more. Strong, firm, grips Sam’s dick and it’s already _ready_ , pre-come at the tip, Dean just jerking him off as his hips stutter, cool air on the bare skin of his ass.

Spiderwalks his fingers down the crack of Sam’s ass, knowing it freaks Sam out, Sam almost jumping out of his skin. It’s good that Dean let go of his dick, can’t damage the goods ( _no way he’ll get a return_ , Dean thinks, realizes he’s been staring at the return policy sign too long).

His fingers are glistening with the lube, and first he’s gotta take it slow, loving the annoyed huff that slips out of Sam’s mouth. But _then_ , it’s even better to hear that low dragging groan when he starts pushing up, careful—it’s not the best position, this, gonna take some work. This kinda work, Dean don’t mind at all, muttering something against Sam’s neck, maybe all the things that they still have to do—or the things that definitely need to be done a lot _more_ , too many things.

It’s ‘round the time when Sam’s jeans fall past his knees, belt stripped off and laid on some display case— _High School Musical_? The hell?—that Dean, trying to focus and completely failing, has to be reminded that hey, maybe he should get on with the rest of the fucking, and _fuck_ , he _does_. Pushes in, hot and right and yeah, maybe Dean should breathe, too, good idea, that, sucking down breaths like they’re his last ( _almost are_ , can’t think of it like that, not now).

He curses, staggers a little, pressure builds up. Can’t quite _get_ there, but shit, _shit_ , that’s—“Look, Sammy, look up, man.”

There’s televisions, and Dean’s already switched some on as they walked by earlier, others set to time delays, gotta love technology, and the camcorder too, awkward push and pull trying to angle them closer, in the line of sight—fuck if he’s gonna do this without taking _advantage_ , and there he is, on TV, surround sound his and Sammy’s voices, ragged, rough moans.

It’s bad, this angle, can’t see much other than the fact that his ass needs a fucking tan, that Sam’s a fucking giant—broad shouldered, shirt still on but got the ugly jacket off at least, can see him, wide and strong, in front of Dean—and that Sam, arching, open mouthed and eyes shut tight, if that isn’t fucking _hot_ , Dean doesn’t know what is.

Yeah, yeah, keep thinking that, keep—keep— _fuck_ , he moans and blows his load, and his hand almost goes slack, _oh_ , right, Sam’s annoyed grunt as he arches back up into his brother. Dean’s hand steadies itself and draws it out, _firm_ , and the sticky mess is all over Dean’s thighs, and Sam’s ass, and Dean’s gotta get a grip and _wipe_ , let his fingers trail along the bend of Sam’s hip, asscheek.

Slaps his ass, sticky wet as he drags his fingers, covered in his spunk, two fingers in Sam’s ass this time, and Sam cries out and comes, all out _relief_ , body relaxes and straightens.

Dean’s resting his forehead against Sam’s back, licks his lips, worn. He feels the corners of his mouth go up, smiles without really stopping, lazy sort of grin that almost has a drawl come out of his mouth, saying, “Definitely plasma, dude.”

“What?”

“I’m fuckin’ hot on plasma. You’re not bad, either.”

He can barely get out another word when Sam’s turning and zipping up, hurried shuffle of clothes that tend to make Dean half-hard—but he can’t now, too spent—from just the way Sam _does_ it, all flustered like some kid caught stealin’ candy. He’s thinking about it too much, must be, ‘cause Sam’s hands are on him, on his hips and—

Sam pulls him out of his haze, punch-drunk grin that’s startled into a kiss as Sam helps Dean pull up, zips up his jeans, little trait of caring that Dean’d snark at him for, only Sam’s got his _mouth_ , tongue, _soft_ and—and everywhere, makes him want _more_ , always does. Like he’s exploring Dean’s mouth, conjures up a whole bunch of images, that, but he’s got this _way_ , all slow, sucks on Dean’s bottom lip.

He pulls away and Dean’s eyes are closed, grunt at the break of contact. Dean wipes his mouth as Sam’s moving to the camcorder and messing around with it, pulls out the little tape. He rubs his fingers, like they’re wet—and they probably are—and gently pushes the tape in a pocket, says, _for later_.

They cover their tracks, quickly, cleanly.

 

 

-

 

But later, _much_ later, days and days, when they’re done taking out the spirit, put it to rest, all aches and pains from the fight, the work, Sam’s pulling up a file on the laptop—and shit, must’ve done it sometime in the last town over, few hours at a little hole in the wall developer place to get the footage as Dean was off doing god knows what, counting time down—and he says, “It’s not perfect, but it’s us. Proof.”

Takes him a lot to say that, this thing between them with its highs and lows, all over wrongness that they’re aware of, but at times—many times—that doesn’t matter.

_Proof we’re around. You’re here._

“Figures my legacy’s gonna be my white ass onna sex tape in the middle of aisle fuckin’ four, televisions and camcorders,” Dean says, laptop this silent blur of whites, blues, and shadows as Dean moves up, along Sam’s legs, in between. Unzips Sam and says, “Keep your eyes on the fuckin’ prize and I’ll get you comin’ faster than you can think.”

Because there’s nothing wrong with adding fucking and eating at the same time to go along with that.

_end_


End file.
